


Seashells

by StormyInk



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, armikasa, arumika, but yeah, just needed to get the arumika out of my blood before it boiled over, nonsensical drabbles for arumika week, oceans and sand and seashells and books, some of them just stand on their own, some of these might be connected, sorry this is probably really bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:48:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormyInk/pseuds/StormyInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I could be yours. Your friend, I mean."<br/>"I'll be yours, too."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Childhood/ Past

She doesn't think she's ever seen a happier child.

She discovers him by following the sunny peels of his laughter, finding the slight, willowy boy half swallowed in the shifting waters of the ocean. He is surrounded by flowers riding the frothy top of the sea water, his slender fingers plucking them out of his corn colored hair. He is bare chested, his hair plastered to his skull like a flattened squid and when he turns and finds her watching him she has the unsettling discovery that his eyes are the same exact color of the sea.

His smile is promptly wiped clean, damp lashes blinking rapidly, like a merman discovered by a human—but before he can understand why she is watching him she promptly turns, small feet trudging through the burning sand as quickly and gracefully as she can manage, hoping he surmised the sting of color on her cheeks was from the sun.

* * *

Her house is built on the beach, sand often sifting up the chipped wooden steps of her porch and past the screen door, crabs and seashells sometimes slicing her bare feet when she did not watch her step. She has spent her entire childhood on this shore, basking in the solitude of it, having grown accustomed to being an only child—but the past few days she has seen the yellow haired boy frolic alone in the water, an odd yearning to befriend him swelling in her small chest.

But today he is not in the water. He is sitting in the sand, his hands clamped around his foot—and even from this distance she can see the bright splash of blood flowing over his fingers. Her lips press together as she turns, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets for the first aid kit. As soon as she finds it she runs across the sand, the red plastic box clopping against her knees in her haste.

He hears her coming, turning to look. His large blue eyes are rimmed in red, his nose bright pink from crying—and she feels the strangest squeeze on her heart. His lashes have water drops clinging to them, his chest heaving in small hiccups.

"I can't walk."

Mikasa moved closer, kneeling beside him and peering at his bloodied foot. There was something smooth and sharp embedded into the arch, white as bone.

A seashell.

She shifted closer, tentatively reaching for his ankle. He flinched at first, making a strangled sound—but she pulled away.

"I've stepped on them before." She explained, pointing to a deep scar traveling up her heel to her ankle. "It needs to come out."

He blinked his tears away, seeming to ponder her words. "Alright." He slid his foot towards her, chest shuddering. "Please be careful."

She nods, pulling his foot atop her leg, peering closer at how deep the shell has been pressed in. She tucks her hair behind her ears, brow furrowed in concentration as her fingertips grasp one end of it. "This is going to hurt a little."

He squeezed his eyes shut. She pulls it out as quickly as she can but he jerks and lets out a sob anyway, his fingers curling into his palm.  _I'm sorry,_ she thinks, tossing the shell aside and pressing into the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

He rocks back and forth, arms wrapping about himself, crying as quietly as he can. Within a few minutes she has cleaned him up and wrapped his foot neatly, her fingers smoothing out any crimples in the bandages.

He has his back in the sand, his arm thrown over his eyes—as if he is ashamed of his inability to stop crying.

She reaches out to the water, washing her hands and the seashell of blood as best she can. He sits up, wiping his eyes and sniffling as he watched her.

"Thank you." He hiccups.

She nodded, handing him the sea shell tentatively. "Be more careful, next time."

His smile wobbled, his thumb smoothing over the pale hard ridges that had caused him such pain. "My name is Armin."

She wiped her hands on her dress, her hair whipping into her mouth and eyes as a breeze passed. "Mikasa."

His smile steadied. "You live in that house, don't you?"

She nodded, eyeing the small wooden beach house with chipped sky blue paint. There are several pots with overflowing plants upon the porch, pails full of pretty rocks and seashells she collects, wind chimes that clink pleasantly in the breeze. It is not as fancy as the other houses, she thinks, but she likes it better nonetheless.

It is home.

"Do you think I can use your phone, Mikasa?" Armin's cheeks are flushed. "I'd like to call my grandpa to pick me up. I don't think I can walk back like this."

She hesitates—they do have a phone but it is corded.

He makes a sound of both amusement and alarm as she hefts him up her back and carries him over the shore, her hands gripping his knees the way her father does when he gives her piggyback rides. She puts him down once they reach the inside, moving to the kitchen as he mumbles into the phone. She serves them both a glass of water just as he puts the phone back into its cradle, wondering if she should offer him juice instead.

"He's coming to pick me up here. But…it'll be a while."

They drink their water—and she spends the rest of the afternoon showing him all of the seashells she has gathered since she was a toddler.

"Are you sure I can have all these?" His hands are overflowing with shells and rocks, some of them clattering onto the wooden boards beneath his feet.

She nodded, keeping her dark eyes fixed on her work. "Except that one."

He frowned, trying to eye which object she spoke of amidst the piles of them. "Which one?"

She stands and walks away, grabbing the white sea shell that still held a pink tint of his blood. "This one." She ran her thumb over it, turning it over and examining it critically. "I want to keep it. If that's okay."

Armin feels a thousand questions curl onto his tongue, his mind working too quickly for his own good—but at the small serene smile that graces her lips it all goes quiet. "Of course you can."

She sits, grabbing a small metal tool and digging into the shell at the very corner.

He put the sea shells and rocks down, sitting beside her tentatively, the icy breeze making chills prickle across his flesh. "Do you give all of your friends seashells and pretty rocks, Mikasa?" The question tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it; whether he asked due to nervousness or because he wanted to know if he was an exception he did not know.

Her brow furrows as she continues to dig a hole into the hard surface, small pale fingers flushed bright red. "I don't have any friends."

It is his turn to frown, his blue eyes flickering over her as he wonders at this information. She seems kind and calm enough—she is caring enough to run towards him with a first aid kit and carry him when he was wounded—and as intelligent as he has always been called he cannot understand why she would not have a friend in the world.

"I could be yours." He feels that sting of heat on his cheeks, the back of his neck, spreading down his throat. "Your friend, I mean."

Her fingers still, those fathomless dark eyes touching his. The wind picks up again, lifting her shiny black hair and tangling it around her neck and shoulders and Armin feels a strange urge to memorize this exact image of her before him, of the way the setting sun's weak sunlight painted her in rose and gold.

"I'll be yours, too."

* * *

They are still sitting on the porch steps when his grandfather arrives, grimacing as he made his way through the sand.

"That's him." Armin stood, brushing the sand off of himself as best he can. He winces a little as the pain flares in his foot and Mikasa put down her tool and seashell.

"Good bye, Armin."

His good bye tangles in his throat, an odd reluctance to leave her alone on the porch swelling within him—he leans over her, brushing her hair back to press a soft kiss to her cheek.

She freezes at the touch, skin growing warm—and he is beet red as he pulls away. "Thank you, Mikasa." He is terribly flustered, a little clumsy as he moves away. "I'll see you soon." He vows, turning and walking down the steps, nearly tumbling in his bashful retreat, leaving bright eyed with pockets full of sand and seashells.

* * *

His giggle is perhaps the most infectious thing she has heard and she cannot help but smile as they try to get the paint off of themselves, sheets of paper sticking to their feet.

"Finger painting is messy." He observes, wiping her hands with a napkin—and she jerks a bit when it brushes over her palm. "Sorry."

She shook her head. Her hands have always been terribly sensitive.

"Are you ticklish, Mikasa?" There is something terribly worrisome about the sudden brightness in his gaze, his small hands swiftly moving towards her stomach—and Armin shrieks as she tackles him to the ground in the blink of an eye.

* * *

"That scar looks as if it was very painful."

She puts her small plastic shovel down, sand crumbling off the shiny green surface. He is looking at the ugly raised ridge that goes up the side of her heel and creeps up her small ankle, the skin pale and silvery and grotesque.

"It did." She had wept like an infant at it, had cried so loud her father had heard her from their home, running towards her as if it had been for his life. "It was a big shell."

Armin tried to move forward but the sand covering his legs and hips holds him in place, not wanting to destroy the mermaid tail Mikasa has so diligently sculpted. "Do you still have it?"

She ponders—and instead of answering she stands, quickly dashing over the sand to her porch. She returns within a moment, a little breathless as she drops to her knees beside him and hands him the pale pink shell.

Armin takes it and marvels, wonders at the size of it. It is not huge by any means but to have been embedded in her skin it seems ten feet wide. "It's as big as both my fists." He measures it, turning it this way and that. Yet for the sharp edges and the width of it the color is soft, blush, like the pale pink clouds at sunrise, like the color that tints her cheeks whenever he kisses her good bye. "It almost looks like a flower."

Her dark eyes give nothing away—but her toes curl. "I think so, too."

He smoothed his thumb over it slowly, wondering. "Can I have it?"

She looks perplexed for just a moment before she looks away and nods.

"Thank you, Mikasa." He slips it into his small backpack and they forget about the shell for the rest of the day.

* * *

"Back at home I have a friend named Eren." Armin tells her, his book forgotten on his lap. It is nighttime and the low light of the porch is not enough for them to discern the words or pictures. He had surprised her by showing up on her doorstep earlier that afternoon with a bag full of heavy books the way she had her pails of seashells—and soon enough the porch is littered with the objects of their obsessions. "He's nothing like you. He's very loud and talks a lot." His smile is happy despite his words, a fondness creeping through.

"Where are you from?" She is thumbing through a particularly thick book, taking care lest the paper crumbles beneath her touch.

"New York." He informs her, sighing wearily. "A crowded place. A lot of angry people, a lot of concrete and cars and noise." His blonde hair fluttered as he spoke, his lashes glinting in the low light. "We come here during the summer."

 _During_.

That meant it was temporary, didn't it? It meant he would leave when summer came to an end, and she'd be alone again with her ocean, stones and seashells for company. Armin is suddenly pensive, uncomfortable, as if he is following her train of thought—and she does not wish him to be uncomfortable so she points to a passage and asks him to explain what it meant.

He leans close, his small hand touching her shoulder—and they huddle together, speaking quietly until they must part.

* * *

There is salt on her tongue, on her skin and hair, and she licks it off her lips as her lungs burn. Armin is sputtering, coughing up mouthfuls of the ocean, his hands clawing into the sand as if that will cease his retching.

"I almost died." He is crying, his eyes squeezed shut, his words torn out between awful sobs. "I thought I was going to die."

 _But you didn't,_ Mikasa thinks, too exhausted to move, having over exerted herself in her haste to save him. She had never felt such terror grip her, fear an ugly twist deep in her belly—her body moving just as she saw the water swallow up her only friend.

 _I saved you,_ she tries to say, but the words feel wrong because he is still crying, he is still shaking and the water is still brushing at their small feet with a hunger that is far from sated.

* * *

She does not see Armin for an entire week after his near drowning. It is reasonable, she tells herself—he could have very easily died. The ocean he had loved with abandon had nearly been the reason for his demise, had strangled him and if he were to fear it now she could not,  _would_ not blame him.

She only wished he would have said goodbye.

* * *

"I'm leaving back home tomorrow."

The small metal pin skids off the hard surface of the shell, stabbing deep into her finger.

"Mikasa!" Armin grabs her wrist, shakily removing the metal pin from her skin. "Where is your first aid kit?"

He ushers her inside, and before she can gather her muddied thoughts she feels the sting of alcohol swiped over her wound, his brows knitting together as he worked. She is curiously numb as she watches him place a small blue band aid over her finger, her free hand touching over her small pocket absentmindedly. He trudges over to the sink, dipping a wash cloth into the water. "You need to be more careful." He began to wipe her hand of any traces of blood or sand, slipping the cloth between her fingers.

"Why didn't you come back to see me?"

Her heart stops a little as the question spills from her lips, her hand twitching at the drag of cloth against her sensitive palm.

He cannot look at her, yellow hair curtaining sea blue eyes. "I was…embarrassed." His voice is small, quivering. "I didn't want to get too close to the ocean again. I've been having nightmares."

She pulls her hand away slowly, slipping off her chair to make her way to small cabinet beside the sink. She tugs out a small black string and tugs out the white seashell in her pocket, threading it through the small hole she created at the very corner.

"Turn around."

He hesitates—but obeys her request, shivering when her hand brushed his hair away from the nape of his neck. She slid the rope around his throat, tying it neatly. The shell rested a bit far down his narrow chest, warm from being pressed in her pocket the entire day.

He faces her when she is done, his small fingers touching it tentatively. She had asked to keep it and he had watched her work on it day after day but had never wanted for it back. She'd made it into a necklace for him—the object that had caused him so much pain, and left him with a new scar.

The object that had brought them together in the first place.

"What is this for, Mikasa?"

Mikasa looks away, moving towards the sink as she spoke quietly. "So you'll remember me."


	2. For you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His fingers grip the front of her jacket, wondering if she knew—despite her strength—how her gentleness always undid him in ways he'd never be able to have words for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Wisdom/ Strength  
> Little bit of body worship, just sensuality without the sexual stuff, not really, anyway.   
> I'm a bit of a sucker for those sorts of things.   
> Trying to catch up to the prompts. Sorry if it shows.

His tongue brushes over the cut on his bottom lip, the copper taste making him grimace. The twist of his mouth tugs at the edges of the wound; the blood flowing free again—and his eyes squeeze shut at the pain, at the frustration.

He is weak.

He is always weak.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes but the tears slip out anyway, his body shuddering as he tries to stem the rage and humiliation he feels, recalling how he'd been the  _only one_  who hadn't been able to pass, the way he'd slammed into a tree and fallen like a rag doll.

There were some who laughed, others who hushed them—and he'd hated needing help to stand, needing to be escorted away because his mouth was bleeding and his ribs hurt and his body is small and frail and sometimes he feels as if he will never be enough.

He hears the crush of leaves and twigs and stiffens, wiping his face with his sleeve as discreetly as he can.

"Armin." She murmurs, softly, her voice making his throat ache. She moves towards him when he does not respond, and he knows that she  _let_ him hear her, that if she had not wished to be heard she would have been as silent as a cat.

She does not speak and nor does he want her to. She had tried to comfort him in her awkward way when they'd been much younger, fresh recruits, finding him much like he was now, sniveling off in a dark corner.

 _You don't have to be strong._ She'd told him, her brow furrowed, dark eyes unreadable.  _I can be strong for you._

And he'd hated her words, hated hearing them, hated knowing that she thought them because it meant she didn't think he was capable of being strong because she always had been and he'd never be worth her or Eren or anyone.

Eren had hushed her, had seen the way Armin's face had flickered at her words—and he'd left without a word. It hadn't been her fault, he shouldn't have brushed her off the way he had, knew it had stung her. It had been years ago but the memory returned in full force as her fingers brushed his hood back, tangling in his blonde hair. She tipped his head back, her dark eyes seeing the beginnings of his black eye, flickering over his split lip. "Armin…" She breathes his name again, lowering her head to press her mouth to his forehead tenderly. "Let's go back before the sun sets."

His fingers grip the front of her jacket, nodding, wondering if she knew—despite her strength—how her gentleness always undid him in ways he'd never be able to have words for.

* * *

 

He sat at the very edge of the bed, his shirt curled in his fist.

The bed creaked as Mikasa shifted behind him, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips, her hands smoothing over his slim shoulders. He shudders at the warmth of her palms, at the way her rough fingertips press the lotion into his skin, her breath tickling the fine hairs at the nape of his neck.

"Lie on your stomach."

He obeys with a shudder, pressing his cheek into the cool pillow and shutting his eyes, his hair still damp from his bath. She straddles his thighs, her knees tightly pressed to the sides of his hips, her nails lightly raking down his slim back. He knows she is doing this to reassure him because of his frustration with his own weak body, to ease the ache of his sore muscles and pride—because she wants to comfort him with her touch because she fears she cannot do so with her words.

She'd been on his bed when he'd come back into his room, barefoot with only a thin white shirt half buttoned—and her mouth had found his, her slim fingers threading through his hair soothingly as she sat him down and twisted the cap off the container, letting the florid scent of it waft in the air.

"I'm okay, Mikasa." He nearly groaned the words into the pillow, her thumbs finding a sore spot on his right shoulder blade. "You need to rest, too."

She only runs her fingertips deeper into his back, circling and pressing, making his fingers clutch at the sheets. "If I don't do this now," She slathered her palms with more of the fragrant lotion, the pleasant scent of blossoms and soapy bath water filling the air. "You won't be able to move at all tomorrow. Your muscles are already taut."

He gives up protesting, letting his eyes shut. "Not like I have much of them." He means to dissipate the strained edge of the atmosphere but the memory is still too fresh, his anger still bubbling.

She goes still at his words, at how tightly his jaw is clenched, at the utter self-loathing written all over him.

"You do." She shifts, crouching over his back, and he starts when her breath brushes the top of his spine. "All along your back." She smoothed her creamy palms from his shoulder blades down, her soft chest pressed against him. "It's very lean muscle. Light." Her nails rake over his skin as she moves her hands back up. Her fingers creep over his small shoulders, sweeping down his biceps to his elbows, fingers massaging as she continued murmuring words to the back of his neck. "Your arms are firm. I can see your veins here—especially when you're writing reports or studying." She pressed her fingers into his wrists, applying pressure in places that made his entire body jerk, a groan wrenching from his throat weakly.

"Mikasa."

"I like your hands the most." She rubs her thumb over his thin knuckles, smoothing over each tapered fingertip. "You have long, elegant fingers. They always have cuts from all the papers you sift through. I like the way they look when they're curled around the hard edge of a book, the way they stroke while you read and think." She links their fingers for a brief moment before moving away and off of his body, the loss of contact making him feel unbearably cold.

He lifts his head to look over his shoulder—but then she is flipping him onto his back, quickly perching over his legs again. The warmth of her settles over his knees, and his pulse thrums at the way the white fabric pulls away from her chest and stomach, her thighs firm on either side of his. "You're small." She dips her fingers back into the small container of cream, drawing a line of ice down his stomach. "When you're sparring and the day is warm I can see the lines." She draws them for emphasis, sliding the cream in the creases of his abdomen, not seeming to notice his shudders. "I can see your hipbones when your pants slide too low." Her hands grasp his hips firmly, pulling up, making him arch. "I remember how they feel against me. And your knees are sharp." She moved to straddle his ankles, running her softs hands over his knees, kneading his thighs as his breath caught. "You should use them more. They hurt when you jab them into soft points on the body." She worked the cream into his leg muscles, her mouth slipping down his flat belly.

His lashes flutter as he threads his fingers through her soft wet hair, tugging her back up. She scoots up to straddle his hips, her hands splaying over his narrow chest, nails catching over his sharp collarbones. His hands find her hips, his pulse feeble, his breath quick.

"You are not weak, Armin." She grabbed his hand, dragging his palm up her hard stomach, pressing it over her chest, letting him feel the beating of her heart. She shut her eyes, her voice lowering to a rasp. "Eren and I would not be here without you."

Mikasa has always been strong, has always excelled in anything she has tried her hand at—through her natural talent and her hard, unrelenting work. She is proud of her strength, proud of the muscles of her body, of how it shows—but she is harsh, brutal, and she gives herself no softness.

Armin twists his legs between hers, rolling them over. She lets him—of course she does—and her dark eyes fly open as he crouches over her with a small smile, his yellow hair curtaining his eyes.

"I've always admired you." His fingers catch over the buttons of her white shirt, tugging the fabric apart slowly. "Your strength. I've always wanted to be as strong as you but I'm always straggling behind, watching you fly and cut, stopping you from doing something reckless." He slips the shirt off of her, marveling at her edges and her curves, at the scars that have healed, the way the muscle has knitted back together crudely. He smoothed the cream into her skin, up her stomach, over the swell of her chest, stopping at the tops of her shoulders. "I've always found it strange how you could be so intelligent, so strong and yet so brash, Mikasa." She tipped her head up to meet his lips—gentles when he flinches, the cut on his lip stinging almost pleasantly. "But if you can be strong enough for me I suppose I'll have to be wise enough for the both of us."

She smiles against his mouth, her fingers tangling in his damp hair as she wraps herself around him, wondering if he knew how his tenderness had always unraveled her in ways she'd never be able to voice.  


	3. Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chocolate seashells, pink paper hearts and growing up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Secrets/Confessions  
> Continuation of Chapter one.

_Mikasa,_

_How have you been? I'm back in New York now and Eren says I'm bigger but my measurements are the same. I think he was saying that to make me feel better because he grew a lot since I last saw him. I start school tomorrow. I'm nervous and I wish I could be back on your porch and we could spend the whole day reading and organizing the seashells by color and size._

_I'm still wearing your necklace._

_Please write back soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Armin_

* * *

_Armin,_

_I have been okay. I'm already back in school and it is the same as it has always been. I don't have any friends yet. I don't know if I've grown but I measured myself when I got your letter to see if I grow in a week or two but my mom says it takes longer than that._

_I still sit on my porch every afternoon but it's different now that you're gone and I'm alone again._

_I'm happy you like the necklace. Do you still have the pink shell?_

_Sincerely,_

_Mikasa_

* * *

_Mikasa,_

_The pink shell is under my window on the table where I do my homework. I can hear the ocean when I press it to my ear but sometimes I get nervous when I remember the water so I don't do that too often. It looks pretty when the sun is on it, though and it reminds me of the way the sun looks when it sets over the beach. It's very cold over here and I miss how warm it was over there._

_I really like my necklace. Eren likes it too. I think he wants one too so maybe I'll try to make him one the way you made me one with all the seashells you gave me. I keep them in a box under my bed._

_I'm very sorry you don't have friends but at least we're friends, right? Maybe you should try talking to some of them? Or invite them to the beach? Maybe you can make them necklaces, too._

_Your first friend,_

_Armin_

_P.S._

_I have grown taller and lost a tooth._

* * *

_Armin,_

_There is a necklace in the envelope. I made one for your friend Eren. I hope he likes it. I didn't know which one he'd like but I picked it because it is almost a perfect circle and it's a bright yellow like the sun in the mornings._

_If the pink shell makes you nervous maybe you should put it away somewhere. Just make sure not to step on it because I'm not there to help you._

_It has gotten colder here. I have to wear two sweaters and I am still very cold. I took a bag of seashells to school but no one wanted to see them. I think I made one friend, though. Her name is Annie and she has blonde hair and blue eyes, like you. We got in a fight during recess for the swing—she split my lip and I made her nose bleed—and the teacher made us hold hands and we sat together for lunch. She doesn't talk much but at least she sits with me now. I'm making her a necklace as soon as I am done writing this letter to you._

_I haven't grown taller but I had to get new shoes because my old ones didn't fit._

_Your friend too,_

_Mikasa_

* * *

_Hey Mikasa,_

_I hope the big box didn't surprise you. Eren really liked his necklace and I let him read your letter. I hope you're not mad about that. He sent you a scarf since you said you were always cold and he wanted to give you a present too. I also sent you a picture of the two of us for you to have since now we're both your friends. We're both wearing our necklaces._

_I'm very happy you made a friend, even though you two fought. I hope she liked her necklace and that you two don't fight anymore. Eren gets in a lot of fights and I always have to pull him away._

_I hope you like the scarf and our picture. I hope your shoes protect you from sharp seashells._

_Your friend,_

_Armin_

* * *

_Armin,_

_I taped your picture to my mirror. Thank you for sending it to me. You both look very happy. I sent you one of me and Annie before we went surfing. She is wearing her seashell necklace and she isn't smiling because she didn't want to take a picture. Actually, Annie hardly ever smiles. Maybe that's why we're friends._

_I am wearing the scarf. Tell Eren thank you. It is very warm and it smells nice._

_Do you plan on coming again this summer, Armin? I'd like to see you again. I've found a lot more seashells and rocks I think you'd like._

_Yours too,_

_Mikasa_

* * *

_Mikasa,_

_I also have your picture up but it's on my wall where I have all the pictures of my friends and family. You and Annie aren't smiling but I can tell you guys look happy. Eren was happy to see you wearing the scarf. He says you're pretty and so is Annie._

_My grandpa says we can't afford it this year. Maybe next year we'll go. I wish I could see you again. I have a jar now where I collect money. Maybe it can help my grandpa pay for a trip out to see you. I'd love to see you surf even if I am still afraid of the water._

_Your friend,_

_Armin_

* * *

Months pass and her highlights consist of playing with Annie and opening boxes and letters from Armin, a silent, inexplicable warmth blooming over her chest and down to her stomach each time. She wears her scarf through the winter months and she wears it as it warms in spring, ignoring the odd questions from her peers and parents of why she is so reluctant to remove it.

Mikasa has three friends, now. Two of them are too far and one is beside her most of her days, silent and distant, the deep gray blue seashell Mikasa gave her hanging around her wrist or neck at odd times. When she is not learning how to surf with Annie she is still collecting seashells, sometimes sticking them to her letters to Armin, keeping all of his letters in a box she has decorated with childish hands.

"You really like Armin, don't you, Mikasa?" Her mother murmurs one afternoon, helping Mikasa spell a particularly difficult word.

Mikasa nods, signing her name at the very bottom of her letter and putting her small pencil down. She does, she thinks, she misses him in a way that is foreign to her, in a way she does not understand because she had not known him for long and should not be so attached to him.

It is nearing summer and it will soon be an entire year that she has known Armin—and it will be at least another year until she may or may not see him.

She threads her fingers through Mikasa's hair as she asks her next question. "Is it because he was your first friend?" Her mother hunches down, smoothing her skirt to peer into Mikasa's features teasingly. "Or do you  _like_ Armin?"

Mikasa frowns, misunderstanding. "Of course I like him. He's my friend."

Her mother laughs, more to herself, kissing Mikasa's forehead tenderly.

"Never grow up, Mikasa."

* * *

She is thirteen when she receives her first confession of love and understands the difference between like and  _like_.

He is a tall boy, her age, lanky with sharp features. His hair is odd and different shades of brown, his eyes the color of the sand that surrounds them. He is flushed red—both from the sting of the sunny afternoons spent on the beach and from his passionate speech, his hands clutching and unclutching the top of the school bus seat.

He  _likes_ her, he says. He has for a long time, admired her from afar, loves how intelligent and strong she is and the way she surfs is almost inhuman and beautiful and he's never seen anything like it.

Friends like each other, or they should, but no, he doesn't like her as a friend, he  _likes_ her, likes her.

And the question her mother asked those months ago suddenly slips in, unwarranted, her teasing gaze suddenly having another meaning.

_"You really like Armin, don't you, Mikasa?"_

Yes, she thinks, of course she does. Armin has a pretty smile and his giggle always makes her smile, too. Armin has hair the color of spun gold, hair that stayed soft even with the harsh salt of the sea, hair that he'd constantly tucked behind his small ears as he read. She likes his voice when he gets excited about a certain topic, the way it infects her and she liked the gentle touch of his hand as he brushed her hair away to give her a goodbye kiss and the way he blushes whenever he does.

There is a  _physical_ ache in her chest now, a yearning, and she doesn't like the way it feels at all.

"Will you…go to the winter dance with me, Mikasa?" Jean blurts again, bringing her back to the moment, a little worried by her distant look.

Mikasa's eyes slip to the window beside them, seeing Annie kicking at the sand over the crumbling pavement, impatiently waiting for her to finish talking with Jean.

"I'm going with Annie." Mikasa curls her hand around the strap of her backpack. "Sorry."

"Oh." Jean deflates visibly, a frown knitting his sharp brows together. "Okay."

She moves to step out but pauses at the way his head is bowed, at the defeated slump of his shoulders.

"Jean?"

He blinks away his wretchedness, forcing a smile as he looks at her, strain written all over him. "Yes Mikasa?"

"You're very handsome." She tugged her scarf up, blushing despite herself. "I like how tall you are. It reminds me of my dad." And with that—and one last look at his stunned expression—she quickly steps down the bus, walking towards Annie a bit unsteadily.

"Took you a while." Annie mutters, tugging their surfboards away from the wall and leaning Mikasa's towards her. "What did he want?"

Mikasa lifted her slim board, tucking it under her arm as they made their way down the street towards the beach. "He likes me."

Annie huffed a little. "Like… _likes_ you, likes you?"

Mikasa nodded, understanding. "He asked me to the dance."

Annie scowls and Mikasa knows she is remembering how Bertolt had asked Annie to go with him, too, how stunned Annie had looked. Annie hated surprises.

"What did you tell him?"

Mikasa licks her lips, can smell the salt of the ocean, can already taste it, feel the rush of the waves warping beneath and beside her.

_I like someone else._

"I told him what you told Bertolt."

Annie frowned now. "What?"

Mikasa dropped her backpack into the sand, tugging her shirt off, eyes on the water as she tied up her hair. "That we're going to the dance together."

* * *

_Mikasa,_

_I can't believe you're that tall already! You're actually taller than me now. I hope I catch up to you soon. Nowadays it feels like everyone is bigger than me but then I've always been small and weak._

_I got your picture and I really like this one. That sandcastle is huge, like you said but—I can't help but notice how different you look now. You're still pretty but I think you're even prettier now. Did you cut your hair?_

_I sent you another picture of me like you asked but I'm a little embarrassed because I am just the same as I was when I was little, I think. I haven't really grown much. You might be disappointed. Eren and I were looking at my yearbook pictures today and he could barely tell the difference._

_I hope you're doing well, Mikasa. Please send me as many pictures as you like. Seeing you makes me happy because I can't see you in person. I hope we can meet again soon._

_Yours,_

_Armin_

* * *

When summer rolls around again she asks the same question of  _are you visiting this summer?_

It has been over two years now, almost three, and Armin gives her a disappointing answer yet again.

_My grandpa says we have to go out of the country to visit some family in Europe for the summer. I begged him to take me to see you but he says not this year. I even told him I'd saved money for it._

_I'm sorry Mikasa._

_I really want to see you again._

There are wrinkles at the sides of the paper and water stains splashed over the words—tears, she knows—and there is regret knotting her insides. He had been crying while he'd written this and she feels at fault, knows she should not have asked him, memories of how broken he'd looked whenever he'd cried filling her head to near breaking.

_It's fine,_ she begins her next letter,  _family is important._

She vows never to ask again.

* * *

He is caught in a dangerously stupid situation. He does not understand when this game of  _who do you like_ began but he tries to avoid it—and does—until he is cornered by a group of his classmates, their eyes bright.

"Who do you like, Armin?"

He shakes his head, sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. "Why are you guys asking me this?"

"Because," Hitch chirps in, her smile twisted. "Everyone has said who they like except for you."

He can make something up—it would be the easiest way to get out of this situation. Invent someone to get them out of his hair.

"She…" He licks his lips. His mind worked rapidly, trying to think of features that he could list convincingly and he touches the seashell necklace in a nervous habit. "She gave me this." He blurts, his eyes shutting. "She has black hair and dark eyes and she doesn't talk very much. She smells like the ocean and she loves seashells and she lives far, far away and I...I was her first friend."

At the taut silence after his impassioned speech he opens his eyes cautiously.

"You're making it up." Hitch mutters, rolling her eyes. "That was such a lie."

The crowd dissipates, leaving him flustered and breathing hard against the wall. "I wasn't." He whispers, slinking down.

He hadn't been lying at all.

* * *

_Hey Armin,_

_Annie and I have entered a surfing competition. We're both training very hard even though our coach said we're already better than all the competitors in the 13-15 age group and even those who are older. We're even training some of the kids our age though I mostly only tutor Sasha and Jean._

_Wish us luck. We'll send you a picture if we win._

_There is another picture and I hope you like it. Annie and I went to the winter dance together and it was the first time we've both been to one so our parent's made us take a picture and I thought you might like it. Wearing a dress felt a bit weird. We're still not smiling but we did try to dance. I don't think we're very good at it._

_Have you gone to any dances, Armin? The Valentine's Day dance is coming up and if someone asks you to the dance they're supposed to give you a pink paper heart._

_I hope you're doing well, Armin. I hope we meet one day again, too._

_Always yours,_

_Mikasa_

* * *

Armin sighs when the chocolate wrappers fall too close to his letter for comfort, brushing them away as Eren opens yet another.

"This," Eren slips another chocolate into his mouth. "Is the only good thing about Valentine's day. Getting chocolate."

Armin smiles a little. "Getting chocolate?" Armin narrows his eyes at the small smudge of ink at the very edge of his letter. "Or giving it?"

Eren shrugs, a blush creeping up his features at the reminder. "I always get my mom chocolate." He muttered, swallowing difficultly. "She'll be sad if I don't." Armin says nothing, letting Eren mull as he washed the chocolate down with a glass of water. "What about you?" Eren scoots a little closer, trying to read what Armin has written so far. "Are  _you_  sending Mikasa anything for Valentine's day?"

Armin blinks at the question—but nods. He reaches into his backpack, pulling out a small box. "See?" He slid the box towards Eren.

"They're seashells." Eren marvels, cocking his head. "Chocolate seashells."

Armin feels terribly flustered but nods, tapping his foot nervously. "Do you think she'll like them?"

Eren's gaze flickers up, seeing the way his features are pinched anxiously, insecurely—and his reaction is immediate. "Of course she will, Armin." Eren squeezes his shoulder comfortingly. "You said she loves seashells, right? And who doesn't like chocolate?"

Eren leaves within a few minutes because it is getting late and Armin is now alone at his kitchen table. Armin pulls Mikasa's letter out of his pocket, unfolding it carefully. He touches the small pink paper heart with his name written on it, that sting of heat creeping up his neck and cheeks.

His eyes trace over the  _Always yours_ written above her name, his pulse fluttering as he placed the letter he'd written her in the box to be mailed along with the chocolates, remembering that moment when they'd been sitting on the porch with sand stuck to their skin and sunlight painting them in gold.

_I'll be yours, too._

He placed his own paper heart atop it all, writing her name carefully across its soft pink surface.

* * *

Mikasa is in bed with a terrible flu when she receives his package. Her mother makes a fuss over the chocolate seashells, taking the box from her, unnoticing of the small pink paper heart that had fluttered to the floor. Mikasa had retrieved it, heart racing when she saw her name written across it, pressing the paper to her chest after making sure she had not been mistaken.

Her mother moved to the kitchen to retrieve a knife because the box has tape and that is when Mikasa skims over the very short letter.

_Hi Mikasa,_

_I hope this isn't weird but I thought we could maybe talk on the phone? It's okay if you don't want to. I just thought it would be nice to hear your voice and it would be much faster than letters and I wanted to make sure to be able to tell you happy birthday on the day of._

_Please don't be afraid to say no._

_Yours,_

_Armin_

She writes him back instantly, scribbling their phone number down a little unsteadily. Her mother promises she'll take it the next morning but Mikasa stubbornly refuses, moving to put her shoes on to walk to the post office herself that very second.

Her mother relents at the stubborn jut of her daughter's chin, tucking her into bed and telling her to stay put and she'd be back within a few minutes—and  _yes, yes_ she is mailing the letter.

She comes home when the sun has just set, placing her sweater onto a chair as she made her way to her daughter's room. The light is still on and her door is wide open—and she stills when she steps in.

Mikasa is fast asleep in her bed, pieces of the package strewn about her haphazardly. She moved forward, plucking them away as quietly as she can and pulling the sheets over her slim body. She frowns when she sees something pink in her daughter's hands—she tugs it away from her curled fingers carefully, smoothing the crimpled pink heart and placing it on her nightstand. What holds her attention the most, however, is the smile Mikasa is wearing in her sleep, at the softness of it and she knows—of course she knows— it is because of Armin.

She shut the light off, brushing a kiss over her forehead before moving away. "I thought I told you not to grow up, Mikasa."

* * *

Armin's hands sweat as he fidgets with the letter, trying to gather enough spine to pick up the phone and call her. It is simple, he thinks, just punch in the numbers and say hello.

But what will he say after? She is quiet, he recalls, he may have to hold the entire conversation on his own—but what if he blanks out and can't think of a thing to say? Or worse—what if he talks, and talks, and  _talks_ and she is terribly bored, what if she loses interest and makes up an excuse to hang up because she cannot stand to hear another word? What if her letters dwindle because she is terribly disappointed?

What if he loses her?

He drags in a breath, slowly, letting it out in a huff. He is over thinking it—and besides if he cannot gather the courage to simply  _call_ her how will he manage to  _face_  her when they meet?

He lifts the phone, deliberately punching in her number, forcing himself to keep his breaths even as he hears the ringing begin. There is sound that makes him jump and he hears a murmur of 'later' and the slam of a door before the woman speaks into the phone. "Hello?"

He loses courage for a moment, his lips moving with no sound, and he squeezes his eyes shut, cursing himself, considering hanging up—until she speaks suddenly.

"Armin?" She queries, and her voice is hopeful, wistful, making his throat ache. "Is it you, Armin?"

Her voice is smokier, huskier, but it is just as sweet as he remembers. Armin licks his lips, his hands slippery on the plastic of the phone as he sits crossed legged on his bed. "Yes. Mikasa, it's…me. It's me, Armin."


End file.
